


Stiles's First Subspace

by HeadmasterFelix



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Breathplay, Consensual Violence, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Fucking Machines, Gunplay, M/M, PWP, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 19:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8636059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeadmasterFelix/pseuds/HeadmasterFelix
Summary: Stiles was so eager, but it's becoming too much.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thekingsparty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekingsparty/gifts).



Stiles wasn’t even entirely sure how he got here at this point. He can remember complaining, wanting to stay where everyone could see them, but Chris insisted they would have more fun upstairs. He can remember holding back giddy laughter as Chris led him to his room, hand in hand, and the way Chris slammed him against the wall and kissed him as soon as the door was shut. But everything after that feels like a blur of passion and want and uncontainable excitement at every brilliant idea his friend and mentor and now-lover offered. And now he’s still excited, but propped up on all fours, being abused like he is, he’s starting to worry.

He’s starting to worry because this fucking machine has been going at him for what feels like forever, plunging deep into his hole, fast and harsh, with a toy bigger than he thinks he’s really built to take. He’s starting to worry because the hold Chris has on his hair is making his head burn almost as bad as his throat is from the way that gorgeous cock is forcing it open, making him choke and gag and drool and never quite get enough air. He’s starting to worry because really, what does he know about this man who’s got a gun to his temple and is threatening to pull the trigger if he doesn’t stay pliant?

The worry starts to twist, because there is nothing he can do with it. He’s too stubborn to stop, too needy to signal that he needs a break, just the way Chris told him to before he stuffed his mouth. It twists and twists, and soon the near-panic is ebbing away, and surrender is what comes cascading in in its wake. 

Chris can feel it. The way Stiles stops trying to perform and his mouth becomes just a hole. He knows most men would probably prefer suction and the expert way that boy uses his tongue, but he doesn’t, not right now. Right now the complete surrender is better than anything else. He knows what it is, he’s seen this headspace in plenty of partners, and a twinge of pride and amusement settles in his gut as he remembers Stiles declaring that it might not even be possible to put him there. The boy thinks himself so much more a connoisseur than he really is. But that’s alright. Chris is determined to help him become all that he’s capable of being.

He thinks he’s close, finally ready to fill Stiles’s throat with his load, like the boy probably wishes he’d done ages ago, and looking over the boy’s bloodied and welted back is drawing him ever closer. When he looks back down, though, and watches Stiles’s face in his lap, he can see tears streaking down his face. The boy is far too gone to be faking it like last time, and that’s all Chris can handle. He thrusts up, harsh, entirely cutting off Stiles’s access to air, and comes. He doesn’t pull out until he’s entirely finished and Stiles looks as if he’s on the verge of passing out.

Stiles is too far gone to feel relieved. He coughs and sputters when his throat is left empty, but it’s just reflex. In a moment’s time he’s looking up at Chris, waiting.

“Boy,” Chris sets the unloaded gun beside Stiles and wipes his tears away, smiling gently, and uses his other hand to grab the remote and turn the machine off. “You were perfect. Thank you. Tell me what you need.” He’s hopeful, but not entirely expectant that Stiles will be able to express himself that much. When he asked about aftercare earlier, Stiles had been so certain he’d never needed it and wouldn’t know where to start.

“F-fuck me, Mr. Argent, please,” his voice is hoarse.

“No. No, boy, we’re done with that now. Tell me what you need, how can I take care of you?” Chris is very near taking charge and simply using his best guess to bring Stiles back to him.

But then Stiles starts to cry again, and it’s as hot as it is convincing. “Please, no, no, please. Please fuck me. I need it. Need you.” And fuck, he sounds so sure, and looks so helpless. 

Reluctantly, he nods, and when he extracts himself from beneath Stiles’s head and arms, the relief is visible.

Chris works himself over with his hand as he climbs up behind Stiles, willing himself to recover so quickly. The gorgeous, gaping hole that was entirely his doing certainly helps. As he pushes himself inside, Stiles whimpers almost silently. And when he wraps his hand around Stiles’s cock, he moans softly. Slow and gentle, Chris practically makes love to the boy, careful not to damage his over-worked hole any further, and focusing on only good-touch with his cock. 

The more Chris gives him, the more Stiles starts to come back. First it’s something incredibly simple, just rocking his hips of his own volition into Chris’s hand and against his cock. The more pleasure he receives, the closer he comes to normalizing, but it’s not enough. It can’t be enough like this. He’s still in a haze when he grips the glock that was left beside his head, and speech is still something that’s mostly above him.

Seeing Stiles take the weapon, he assumes it must’ve shifted enough that it was bothering him, and he reaches up to take it and set it out of the way. He pauses though, surprised and confused, when making a motion to put it on the bedside table makes Stiles whimper pathetically again. “You… you want this, boy?” He speaks gently, and tries to project as much non-judgement as possible.

Stiles only nods and whines again.

With a mental shrug, he puts it back, but again Stiles whines. He can’t help but be amused as he puts the pieces together. Taking it solidly in his right hand, he presses the barrel against the back of Stiles’s skull. That act alone is enough to make him think it might just be possible for him to come again, but the way Stiles moans and starts fucking Chris’s hand with more vigor makes him quite sure he could. But this is no longer about him. His only goal is Stiles.

And it helps immensely. His moans grow louder and more frequent, and his head clears more, little by little. He can feel how bad he wants this, and that’s a very good step.

“You’re very good, boy,” Chris tries praise. Works most of the time, but Stiles continues to be odd.

“No, no!” It seems to upset him. “Not yet, not good yet.” Stiles intentionally tightens, and groans, satisfied, when that action makes Chris groan.

“You… need me to come, boy?” It goes against everything he feels like should be happening. He’d had his fun, it was supposed to be about putting Stiles back together now.

“Yes! Yes, yes!” he sounds even more like himself. “Please, Mr. Argent, not a good boy until you come!”

“I did come, Stiles,” Chris uses his name, hoping that breaking from titles would somehow help.

“No, no, not the same, please, Mr. Argent.” He pushes his head against the barrel, hard. Reminding Chris it’s there.

Hesitantly, “Are you absolutely certain that’s what you need, Stiles?” 

“Yes!”

Chris shakes his head in disbelief. At worst, he figures, this wouldn’t work and he would need to tend to Stiles in more conventional ways after all. He begins to push harder, chasing his own pleasure more earnestly while still being quite cautious.

And in no time, Stiles is sounding right, if still quite submissive, again. Moaning wantonly and begging for his come, just like he had the first time they’d been intimate. He’s so tightly wound, and it takes very little before he’s coming into the sheets and crying out, screaming for Chris not to stop. 

He has no intention of stopping. “That’s it, Stiles, that’s it.” Chris moves the gun, pressing it to Stiles’s temple. The sounds that elicits are exquisite, and it pushes him precariously close. “I’m going to fill you up, Stiles. Going to fill you so full because you’re such a good boy for me.”

Stiles ignores the praise, doesn’t care for it yet, but hearing Chris is close, combined with his own still-intense pleasure, brings him completely back home to his proper headspace, instant crystal-clarity. “Fuck! Fuck! Chris, oh God, Chris! Yes! Yes! Fill me! Pull the trigger! Pull the _fucking_ trigger!” He demands.

His eyes go wide at the pleading command, and a few more ragged jerks of his hips has him complying. He pulls the trigger as the first wave of his second orgasm washes over him. He pulls it again and again as he fills Stiles’s raw and abused hole.

The clicking is so loud in his ear, the adrenaline rush as it came the first time, and then again and again, each time threatening to actually fire, overwhelms him. He comes once more, although it’s much smaller than his first orgasm, and borderline-painful. He can hear Chris give a pleased groan as white dribbles over his hand.

Chris pulls out, panting, and grabs up a discarded shirt to clean off his hand. The two collapse beside one another, both fucked-out and beaming. “How do you feel, Stiles?”

He grins as he answers. “Perfect. I feel fucking perfect.”


End file.
